


Not My Fault

by sebasstianstan



Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Doctor John, John is on an undetermined leave of absence from work, Lawyer Alex, M/M, References to patient death, ambiguous storyline, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 06:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebasstianstan/pseuds/sebasstianstan
Summary: John had a breakdown after losing too many patients in too terrible of ways. Of course, he blames himself entirely for each one. He was ordered an undetermined leave of absence from work until he could get in the right headspace again. To try and battle the trauma, John turns to art as his solace.





	Not My Fault

It was quiet in the apartment, almost entirely silent save for the sound of John swooshing his paintbrushes around in the water to clean them, and his soft humming as he listened to his music through his headphones. Alex wasn’t home, so he could have played the music as loud as he wanted, but he preferred when he could control it more like this. Like it wasn’t a nuisance.

He wished he could control everything this easily.

He sat on the big seat of the bay windows, more thankful than ever that he and Alex had sprung for the slightly more expensive apartment. These windows were nice. Easy to draw the cityscape just outside.

It was a simple choice, really, to get this place. It was in the perfect spot of New York - a place not too full of people and tourists, but somewhere that still had everything you could possibly need within walking distance. Plus, with his and Alex’s, or rather, solely Alex’s income now, it was still in the range of decently affordable.

John couldn’t help much with rent and taxes and groceries and all that now. The thought made him flinch, accidentally smearing a long, heavy line of blue right over a tree.

Not his fault.

He took a breath. Looked at the offensive blue line. Counted in his head. 1, 2, 3. Breathed out. Counted again. Delicately cleaned his brush out and dabbed it back in the oranges and yellows to echo the color of the fall leaves he had just ruined.

Much better.

He exhaled loudly, turning his music up a few notches. He was in control.

It wasn’t his fault.

He winced as the words flickered through his mind, remembering the Chief of Medicine say that, remembering his nurse say that. Remembering Alex say it.

Not his fault, not his fault.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, trying to put his focus back outside, look at the beautiful world out there, how the sky complemented the leaves just right.

He could do this.

He counted to three again, putting his full concentration into mixing another warm shade of gray for the looming skyscrapers.

Cleaned his brush out in the water and had images strike him of washing blood and vomit off his hands.

Not his fault.

Forced back the tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Shakily brought his brush back up, dragging it all the way down his canvas as a sob wracked through his body, making him cave in on himself.

The brush clattered to the floor, leaving splashes of gray upon it. If he waited to long to clean it, it would stain.

Couldn’t bring himself to move his trembling hands down to get it, just pulled his knees up to his chest and let himself shake and cry until it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

It was his fault. It was all his fault.

He didn’t know how long he was like that, letting tears drip down from his cheeks to his sweatpants. It could’ve been minutes, but it felt like days. Weeks of dealing with this guilt, of breaking down because he wasn’t strong enough to handle the truth.

Everyone lied to him, tried to comfort him. He knew it was all lies. Lies from the people closest to him, telling him he did all that he could have, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

It was all bullshit.

In reality, it was about twenty minutes later when Alexander walked in door, just getting home from work. He greeted John as soon as he was in the door, but before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, he heard the little whimpers coming from the living room.

It was seconds later that Alex bolted there, bending down to try and look at John, hands going to his shoulders.

“Sh, baby, baby. It’s okay,” he soothed, running a comforting hand through John’s hair, down his back.

John tried to quiet his wails once he realized Alex was here, but he knew he’d ultimately be unsuccessful with that. He always was. He just ended up scooting over enough so that Alex could climb onto the window seat beside him, pulling his crying boyfriend close, arms securely around him.

“It’s okay,” Alex murmured into John’s hair, shushing his insistent apologies. He wiped away tears from reddened cheeks and kissed John's sweaty forehead. “It’s not your fault.”

John just shook his head hard, continuing to let his sobs out into Alexander’s shoulder and cling to his only lifeline as tightly as he could.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for not continuing my other works on schedule. Midterms messed me up and now finals are already here and I'm really just trying to not go insane from them. Anyway. Here's a little something I wrote to try and get myself back into the writing mood and also because I thought of the prompt of John being a doctor and having something traumatic happen with a patient/patients or something and so he turns to art, and I just couldn't get it out of my head. So here we are. Hope you enjoy!


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